V2 Fifty One
by Laatija
Summary: John runs into some trouble in Las Vegas... again. Whump and job oppertunities. Chapter two in my new Vegas Series. Based on the Alternate universe in the episode 'Vegas'.


Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis. Nor do I pretend to…

**A/N: Here it is, Chapter Two of the Vegas Series. This is a story that goes along with my first Vegas Series one shot The Geneses of John. It's not vital if you read it first but it would help you to understand where this story is coming from. Please remember that the next installment will be posted as a whole new story so if you want updates on the Vegas Series, you'll have to sign up for author alerts.**

**Fifty One**

John fell back against his bed and sighed, the noise coming out as more of a growl. He pressed to fists to his forehead in a futile attempt to push away the headache that was festering behind his eyes. A dull throb pulsated in his shoulder, the remnants of his alien encounter. The pulsing pain in his head was the remnants of something else. It was the inevitable result of his latest argument. John snorted. _Argument_ was only the euphemism for what it really was; a yelling match with his brother. As kids, they used to see who could scream louder. John was still the reigning champ, although Dave won the prize for endurance. They both were expert word slingers. They both knew the exact things to say in order to cut the other person to pieces. And they were both bullheaded enough not to back down. It didn't help that the 'arguments' were increasing in frequency. So much for building bridges. John felt like he was only doing more damage trying to repair his relationship with his brother.

This whole family thing was almost more work than it was worth. Was all this turmoil worth it? What was he doing here to begin with? What was he doing, period? John felt utterly worthless. He felt directionless. Lost. There was no freakin' point to his life. Blah blah blah.

John pushed himself off the bed again. He needed some air. Needed to clear his head. A walk would do it. A few hours of breathing the cooling desert air would counter his emotional claustrophobia. When he cooled down enough, John would come back and actually apologize to his brother. Eventually.

John pulled some shoes on and slipped out the back door. The night was dark, a thick haze covering the city. Lights from all the hundreds of casinos lit the haze with a strange light. This was his city. Sin City. He'd be leaving it soon. Dave didn't live here. He rented a small house for a while so John could recover while his own doctors and physical therapists could treat him. The medical bills had miraculously paid themselves, as did the rent on the house, and the bills for the best physical therapist in Las Vegas (he almost had full use of his arm back). John could only assume it was his mysterious sci-fi people. Not that he was complaining or anything; he'd take what he could get. He didn't have the guts yet but eventually he was going to check and see if anything was left in his bank account. Eventually.

John walked slowly down a sleepy residential street. He could hear sirens in the distance and some punks were blasting Biggy Smalls out of an abnormally and unhealthily large speaker system. His shoes slapped lightly on the sidewalk. John took a deep shuddering breath, feeling the tension start to seep out of his body.

Ok, so maybe everything wasn't as awful as he thought it was. Maybe he and Dave could still fix things between them. Maybe he could get his job back. Never mind, nix the job thing. He hated his bosses and they hated him. But maybe he could get a job in Colorado, where his brother lived. That was a possibility.

John was fully into planning mode as he started getting into the more urban areas of the city. He wasn't exactly paying attention to the world around him which is how he missed it; the small group of shady characters. Actually, it wasn't until he was being yanked into the ally that he took notice of the thugs. John gave fighting a valiant effort, he truly did. But one can only do so much when ones arms are pinned to ones sides and several hundred pounds of sweaty thuggish flesh is trying to smoosh you into the wall. John grunted in pain but the oh-so-addicting buzz of adrenaline was coursing through his veins; pain was an afterthought.

He bucked backwards, planting his feet against the brick wall. A man behind him shouted angrily and John found himself moving backwards much faster then he'd planned only to be slammed forward again, face smacking into the unforgiving brick. The fight left him when a few fists found rather unpleasant resting spots on his body. When he sagged in their grasp, he was roughly pulled away from the wall and secured between two largish men. A small brutish woman with short spiky blond hair stood in front of him, casually holding a pistol in her hands. Kat. Her name was Kat. Which meant that—

"Mikey's wondering where his money is, Sheppard," Kat purred. "You owe him how much now?"

John forced a carefree smile onto his face. "You mean you didn't get my last payment?" One of the thugs wrenched his arms back, pulling at his still healing shoulder, making him wince.

"Oh John. I actually liked you," Kat insisted as she gently caressed his face. John stifled a disgusted shudder. Kat was creepy at the best of times.

"Pity, I didn't really like you," he quipped. Her lips curled back into a snarl. Scarce seconds before the fist landed, John had time to mutter one word, "crap".

It was the intense light that roused him; more than the pain, more than the unbearable heat. Annoying, bright midmorning light. The kind of light that gave him a splitting headache when he was hung over and forgot to close the blinds the night before. Only this time he wasn't hung over. Not by a long shot. Oh sure, he _wished _he was hung over because that would mean that he spent last night getting rip roaring drunk and _not_ getting beat up by henchmen. If only, if only…

Well, at least he wasn't dead. Yet.

John finally opened his eyes; if the slits in his eyelids was considered being open. He could only squint, no matter how much he wanted to look at the world around him. Despite the lack of sight, he could still use his detective skills to figure out where he was. First, it was bright. Second, it was hot. Third, the grit beneath him was most certainly not pavement. The desert. He had been dumped in the desert.

Great. Just great.

John used a hand to shade his eyes so he could actually see around him. Stark, empty wasteland met his gaze. The landscape was flat and dull. Bright sunlight bathed everything in the searing white light of morning. A few scraggly desert bushes peppered the immediate area. The shadow of a mountain formation hugged the skyline, far off in the distance.

The middle of nowhere.

John stood up, stretching his sore muscles. He cursed bitterly at the various aches and pains. His lip felt swollen. His tongue carefully tested the bloody split in his upper lip. John winced as he rolled his shoulders. A full breath was impossible without him nearly dropping to his knees in pain. Broken ribs, no doubt. Plus, he was pretty sure his pinky fingers had been snapped, judging by both the burning agony and the distinct lack of movement.

And he still had that headache.

John took a few steps forward then stopped short. He was missing pants. And shoes. And a shirt. Oh sure, he had boxers on and a wife-beater undershirt but that was like jumping in a pool with an umbrella and hoping you didn't get wet. If he didn't get out of here soon, John knew he was gonna burn.

Oh joy.

What to do now… Well. He could start walking. Actually, he probably needed to start walking now. The sun was only going to get hotter. And suckier.

John pushed himself forward. He zoned out after the first ten steps. Two hours into his walk and John's mind started to wander. Each blistering footfall brought back yet another agonizing snapshot from his past. Each passing moment, the dead desert air became more crowded with smoke and blowing sand and terrified screams. Each heavy lidded blink opened his eyes to burning wreckage and dead faces.

"…_repeat, do not…Sheppard…Get your …here!" the radio cackled around bouts of static. His co-pilot stared at him with wide, frantic eyes. John promptly ignored him. Passengers in the back were shouting at him, demanding to know to which hell he was taking them. He mumbled something about not leaving a man behind, not sure exactly what he was saying. Whatever it was, it shut them up._

"_Ok," a woman with a camera said simply. A simple vote of confidence. He needed to get her number when this was over with. A heated argument started buzzing behind him. He wasn't paying attention until most of the voices behind him gave similar votes of confidence. They trusted him, for whatever reason. John didn't care at this point. Couldn't care. He couldn't rightfully care about anything at this point; his career, his own butt… Nope, he was tossing it out the window because they didn't leave men behind._

_In the background, snaking in behind the steady womp of chopper blades, the hiss of a ground-to-air missile lurked…_

John stumbled. Fell hard onto his knees. He blinked lethargically. Coughed up some sand that had tried to snake into his lungs. In the back of his mind, John knew he deserved this; the agony. What was it that Dave called him? A masochistic war hero wannabe. Sure, he could accept that. He'd already come to a similar conclusion years ago. Not that Dave needed anymore things to be right about…

Masochistic. That seemed to fit him perfectly, or so John imagined. He wasn't given to deep introverted analyses of his own brain. But if he had to guess, he'd wager that his life was rather masochistic. The reckless gambling, the dangerous job, the chasing of aliens from outer space… If he had to guess, he'd say that this was all some sort of twisted attempt to punish himself for…for their deaths.

Man, it was a good thing that John wasn't inclined to self-analysis. It was far too depressing. He was depressed enough as it was.

John blinked. He looked around, not realizing how he'd gotten to this particular part of the desert. And not really realizing how he'd gotten back up after falling down. He looked up at the sun which was well past the midway point in the sky. John's tongue was swollen from thirst and he was really starting to feel the burn on his face. He suddenly felt completely drained. Lifting his feet was an impossible task.

What was the point of trying to force himself forward? He was tried and in agony. The desert was practically endless. No one would be looking for him. Except maybe Dave. But that was a long shot in the best of times. Nope, no point.

John let himself drop to his knees and flop onto his back. He closed his eyes wearily.

Yes, it was fitting, dying here in the desert…where all the others died. Where they beaconed to him with half rotted corpse arms, to welcome him to the dark eternal pit. Even now he could feel things changing, taking him back to that horrible day. The steady _womp womp_ of helicopter blades, the vicious whip of the wind. He could even hear the angry voice of his CO on the radio.

"_Sheppard…what are…doing here?" _The voice was much clearer than before. Crisper. More real. _"…on, Detective…"_

Something wet and cool splashed across his face. It was water. A few droplets rolled into his mouth. It was pure heaven. John opened his eyes in surprise. The hot desert sun wasn't beating down on him anymore. He could see the desert, far below, but he was floating away from it. Huh. _This_ is what dying was supposed to feel like.

"That's it, detective. Come on." The voice, much _much_ clearer now. And it most certainly wasn't coming out of a radio. His eyes rolled around until they fell on a familiar face.

"…Mr. McKay?" John rasped. His throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper.

"Dr. McKay," the man corrected. "Here." He handed John a bottle of water. John greedily accepted it with clumsy hands. He downed half the contents within ten seconds before _Dr. _McKay took it back.

"Easy, don't overwhelm your system."

John wanted to tell him to shove it. But he kept his mouth shut. Then he caught McKay ogling his hands. John looked down at them and winced. Each pinky was swollen and purple and a nasty dark bruise nearly covered the rest of each hand.

"Geeze, what'd do to your hands?"

"Someone doesn't like me," John said moodily.

"I guess. Hey, look, we're almost to the base. You'll be fine soon," McKay insisted. "And then you can tell us just what exactly you were doing out there."

John stared at his bandaged hands. He still felt like crap. Sun stroke. That's what they called it. That's what he had. That plus the concussion and the broken bones made for a very bad time. Not to mention the severe sunburn that covered his body.

"So, you were kidnapped by your bookie and left in the desert?" McKay asked, somewhat dubiously.

"That's what I said. You think I would walk across the desert half naked because I wanted to find you guys?" John shot back.

"Well, no."

"So, can I leave now?"

"Well…ok, look," McKay said as he leaned forward. John shifted nervously in his bed. "We took the liberty of taking a sample of your blood the last time you were in the hospital."

"You what? Why—"

"Because the other Sheppard had something that was incredibly valuable in his blood. Call it a hunch, but I thought you might have the same thing."

"What kind of something?" John demanded. It would sorta suck if he was going to be killed so they could drain his body of blood for the 'something'.

"We call it the ATA gene. It's…it's something that helps you to interact with alien technology."

"Right…I mean, of course it does," John snarked. McKay sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Look, I don't have time to go into details. The point is, you have something that very few people have. We could use you."

"Are you offering me a job?"

"Well, not exactly. Given your record, the military is hesitant to hire you. However, we could take you on as a civilian consultant. This would be…unofficial. Whenever our scientists need help with some of the alien technology, we'd call you."

"So I'm your wonder boy."

"Something like that. It wouldn't be a full time position but we'll need you to stay near Nevada. That said…" He slid a metallic object across John's beside table. His shield. "We got you your job back."

John stared at the badge. Did he really want this? Detective work was fun, but was it worth it. McKay watched him knowingly. "What else do you have going for you, Detective Sheppard?"

John looked up at him. "Ok, I'll do it."

"Just like that?"

"I don't have anything else," John admitted through clenched teeth. "There isn't really another option for me."

McKay nodded sharply. "Ok. Take some time to heal and then we'll talk about the details."

John nodded. As the other man was leaving, John thought of something. "Why are you still here? Didn't you say you had a team…somewhere else?"

"Yes well, we have a bit of a situation," McKay admitted.

"What kind of situation?"

"An escapee sort of situation. Don't worry about it, Detective. You'll probably be hearing about it later."

"Right…"

John watched as the man left then leaned back against his pillow. Wow. What the heck did he just get himself into?

Oh yeah. Aliens, outer space…more aliens. Area 51.

So maybe…maybe his suffering wasn't punishment. Maybe it was more of…payment. Maybe, in some dark corner of his mind, John was trying to pay for the wrong that he'd done. Trying to make it right, somehow. And maybe, just maybe, working here would somehow absolve his sins. Maybe this was big enough to do it.

Area 51. Great. Just…great.

**Fin.**


End file.
